War Stories
by workerbee73
Summary: What happens in Budapest doesn't always stay in Budapest.


_**[Author's Note:** This fic was co-written by a good friend of mine, thrace_adama, so I can't take all the credit here—all the best lines definitely belong to her. And I'm still working on the third (and final) chapter of Rest for the Weary, it's just that this fic demanded to be written first. Hope you enjoy; we had the best time writing it.]_

* * *

**Now**

"It's just like Budapest all over again," Nat said, emptying an entire clip into a couple of Chitauri foot soldiers.

Clint couldn't believe it. That she was bringing it up, in the first place—did she have to bring it up _now_?—and so casually. "You and I remember Budapest _very _differently," he replied.

Sure, there'd been a pretty intense firefight, minus the aliens of course, but it was nothing they couldn't—and didn't—handle. No, to his mind Budapest was victory drinks and cool hotel sheets and Natasha, in that order.

Not that she remembered any of it.

* * *

**Then**

**Budapest, four years ago**

"…And you're sure you're fine?" Clint asked, taking the opportunity to run his eyes over her again. In a completely clinical, professional way, of course.

"Barton," Natasha said, rolling her eyes and brushing past him to enter the hotel bar, "It was nothing, okay? A little bump on the head, that's all. Nothing a few drinks won't fix. You're buying, by the way," she said over her shoulder, "I did save your ass _again _back there."

He followed her lead, as he'd become accustomed to doing, and if he enjoyed the view, well, who could blame him?

They'd been partners for about thirteen months now, running ops and doing missions and quickly gaining a reputation as the best covert agents SHIELD had to offer. Natasha had moved over to working for the good guys with ease, and she and Clint had formed a real partnership—one based on respect, trust, and the fact that he genuinely liked her. Well, more than that if you got right down to it, but it wasn't something he let himself think about very often. Emotion was a liability in the best of situations, and mixing that with work (especially if said work involved a beautiful and deadly ex-Russian spy), well, that was just begging for a whole heap of trouble. So he ignored any feelings other than the purely professional ones, and they ended up getting along rather well.

Except every now and then, he'd find himself slipping, usually when copious amounts of alcohol involved. Tonight was no different. A couple hours and a few dozen drinks later, Clint didn't know about her, but he was feeling pretty damn great about the mission and about life in general.

"Fury will be…well, furious, you know," he laughed as he knocked back another round. He probably shouldn't be so amused by the idea.

Natasha's lips quirked. "I know," she said, and took another shot.

"No doubt we're in for another lecture about whatever-the-fuck protocols we violated."

"Yep."

"So we'd better make the most of tonight," he said with a wink, enjoying the buzz of the whiskey running through his veins. He leaned forward as he spoke, not enough to make a pass, just enough to flirt. Enough to bring their faces closer together.

She looked down, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass before pausing and looking back up. She looked him dead in the eye then, and the desire he saw there hit Clint so hard it would've brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been sitting.

"Yeah," she said, staring openly at his mouth. And just like that, with one word, she turned his world upside down. Again.

_Okay then._

He'd had a feeling Natasha Romanoff could make a man forget his own name. He was right.

* * *

**Now**

After the fighting was done, after they'd been debriefed, and after they'd made not nearly bloody enough plans for Loki, Stark finally got his shawarma. As did they all.

Clint propped his foot on Natasha's chair, sure she'd at least send a glare his way, but she just _looked _at him and suddenly he was thinking of Budapest for the second time that day and fuck, he really needed to get laid, because even he knew it was batshit crazy to be hung up on a woman who'd made it perfectly clear years ago that she was Not Interested. Let alone the so-called Black Widow. Let alone his best—his only—friend.

"So like, we should come up with some war stories or something," Stark said out of the blue.

"War stories?" Banner raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I mean we're _those _people now, we should have stories and secret handshakes and brothers-in-arms camaraderie and all that kind of crap. Team-building stuff."

Cap looked completely confused. "Stark, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Do you refer to epic tales of warriors from ages past?" Thor asked, polishing off his fifth helping of shawarma. Apparently middle eastern roasted lamb was a demigod favorite. "On Asgard, our troubadours would compose songs to commemorate the great battles of old, immortalizing their glory for ages to come—"

"Yeah well, sort of, but the soundtrack's optional," Stark continued. "I'm just talking about—" he looked across the table at Clint and Natasha. "I mean, these guys know. You've been working together how long?"

"Five years," Clint said.

"Five years, so yeah. I'm sure you've got hundreds of stories. Like Budapest. What was that thing I heard over the comms about Budapest?"

Suddenly Clint was thrown back to memories from earlier and found himself completely at a loss for words. "Well, uh—"

"There's not much to tell," Natasha answered matter-of-factly, seeming completely unfazed. "SHIELD sent us to do some recon, things went pear-shaped, we dealt with it, we came home."

Cap nodded seriously, Banner kept his head bowed over his food, and Thor stared into space. Stark, though, looked at her speculatively. The man never could leave well enough alone. "I don't think so. You're leaving something big out."

"_Big _isn't the word I'd use," Tasha said.

At that, Clint nearly inhaled a French fry and began coughing uncontrollably. Not missing a beat, Natasha whacked him hard on the back as he reached for his water glass and gulped the cool liquid down.

"Okay?" she asked with an innocent expression he wasn't buying.

"Fine," he said, glaring at her. He leaned in close to her ear and spoke in a low voice. "And for the record? _Big _is absolutely the word. Any time you want me to refresh your memory..."

"Whatever." But she was smiling, and, as ever, his heart flipped in his chest.

The others paid them no attention, but Stark kept staring at him and Natasha, almost as if he were trying to work out some kind of puzzle. "Wanna share with the class, kids?" he asked.

"Not particularly," Clint muttered even as Nat's "_No_" rang out loud and clear.

There was an awkward pause then, as that had caught everyone's attention. But Clint had had enough. Pushing his chair back, he excused himself, and wasn't surprised when Natasha stood to follow him.

The chatter started before they were even out of earshot.

"Uh, did I miss something?" Banner asked.

"Only an epic amount of foreplay, my friend," said Tony, the smug bastard. "I _knew _there was something going on there."

"You don't really think they're—" Rogers said.

"I do _now."_

Clint pulled on his sunglasses as he walked outside. Stupid fucking Budapest, he thought. Never had such a perfect night been followed by such a catastrophic mess of a morning after.

It had started out so well, too.

* * *

**Then**

He awoke with a smile on his face, reaching for Natasha, but she wasn't there.

Of course she was already gone. He hadn't really expected her to hang around for breakfast in bed—it wasn't her style—but it made him kind of sad all the same. He didn't see her again until he boarded SHIELD's private jet bound for the States a couple hours later. When he entered the cabin, she barely glanced up from her laptop. "Barton," she said distractedly.

"I figured we'd be on first-name basis by now, at least, but okay," he said lightly as he slid into the seat beside her.

Natasha did look up then, clearly uncomfortable. "Look, if this is about last night, you should know—"

"I'm not the clingy type, if that's what you're worried about," he said, trying for cool. Relaxed. It was only one night, right? Didn't want to scare her off.

"Funny. But what I—"

"Though I might be willing to make an exception—"

"Clint."

The edge in her voice got his attention, as well as the fact she'd used his name. He got serious. "Yeah?"

"I don't remember."

Okay, now he was confused. "Remember what?"

"Last night. Nothing after eleven or so."

"Wait, what?" Suddenly his mind was reeling. How was that possible? Last night had been, well, mind-blowing. For him, anyway.

Apparently not so much for Natasha.

Was that an ache in his chest? Weird. He rubbed at it as he asked, "You don't remember—not a thing?" In the spirit of a true trainwreck, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

"No," she said succinctly, then gestured to her forehead. "I got hit pretty hard, remember? It must have been a concussion after all."

He took a deep breath, his mind still spinning, searching for some possible way to save face. "Right," he said. "You know, you'd think this would simplify things, and yet—are you sure you don't remember?"

"No," she said again, obviously unwilling to elaborate.

"Okay" he finally said. "Wow. Ouch. I just thought that—"

"I hope I haven't done irreparable damage to your ego, Barton," she said, avoiding his eyes and focusing intently on the computer screen in front of her. Fine, he thought. So that's how they were going to play it. He could do that. Fall back on the banter. What other choice was there?

"I'm sure you were amazing," she continued. "Best I've ever had, et cetera et cetera."

He let her bait him. "So amazing you can't remember a thing. Yeah." He had to laugh; the alternative was unthinkable. "Well, thanks for the concern, Romanoff. It's touching, really."

"Sure," she said. "I know how sensitive men can be about these things..."

"Sensitive isn't exactly how—"

"But we're partners. And friends, I think," she said, glancing up at him, this time with a bit of apprehension. Before he could so much as nod, she was moving on, all business now. "So I'm hoping we can put this behind us. Pretend it never happened."

"You're ahead of me there, I'll give you that. But yeah, right. Of course. Friends. Partners." That'd been enough before; it would have to be again. "I just...may need a little time. Not much. It's not like I'm—but you—"

Natasha held up a hand. "Say no more. I understand. I'm told I have that effect on people," she said, and there was a genuine sparkle in her eyes now.

He rolled his eyes. "Annnnnd I'm good." He could do this, he thought. After all, it wasn't like there was any alternative.

"Great," Natasha said, as if that settled everything. "Then can we get back to work..._Clint_?" Maybe for her it did.

"Absolutely..._Tasha_. Just one more thing. For the record." Screw it, he thought. Might as well lay it all out there. God knew if he'd get the chance to say this again.

She looked at him warily. "Yeah?"

"You _were _the best I've ever had."

"Aww. You know, that might be the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."

He was serious but could see she wasn't ready to hear it, so he dropped it.

"Don't get used to it," he said, deciding to let her play it off and offering up something of his own. "I save my best lines for the women who _do _remember sleeping with me." She laughed; he smiled. "Now, show me where we're at with the Madrid op."

And that was that.

* * *

**Now**

Budapest.

Natasha didn't know what had made her bring it up. Well, she had an idea, but it was nothing she wanted to delve too deeply into right now. Emotion had never been her strong suit, and in the past 24 hours, she'd felt enough to last a lifetime. But he was still here and still alive and still _him_, so she couldn't help but be thankful and euphoric and damn near giddy with relief. And with something else too. Impatience? All of the sudden she was itching to touch him, to make sure that he was real, that he was okay. And maybe also ready to stop wasting time. The split-second decision she'd made four years ago still haunted her, and on lonely nights in the far corners of the earth she'd often find herself wondering how things might have been different.

The memories from that night began to rise to the surface, but this time she didn't push them down. Instead, she let herself remember.

_She came awake slowly, smiling at the feel of—_

_Natasha sat up abruptly. Stared down at the sleeping form of her partner, her best friend. Her very naked partner and best friend._

_No. No way in hell that it had happened in the first place, and that if it did, that she didn't remember it._

_But then images started flashing through her mind. Trailing her hand down his thigh at the bar, kissing him against the wall outside his room, his hands on her—_

_Natasha shoved the memories down, and carefully extricated herself from the bed._

_This would change everything, and she couldn't, wouldn't, let that happen. Clint was…he was too important to lose over something as stupid as sex. Good sex. Amazing sex, even. Her heart skipped a beat as she began to recall all the things they had done last night. But still—there was no way she was going to screw up everything they had just because he was great between the sheets. No way in hell._

_So she gathered up their clothes from where they'd been strewn across the floor—he'd stripped her quickly, apparently as desperate as she was for the press of skin on skin, she noted—and dropped his on a chair before slipping into the bathroom with hers._

_When she emerged a few minutes later fully clothed, she paused only long enough to ensure he was still sleeping and then let herself out of the room without a backward glance. Or at least, without much of one._

Once she let the memories in, she couldn't stop thinking about it. For two days straight she thought about it. Thought about wasted time and second chances and not bullshitting around with how she felt. Thought about how close she came to losing him and how that might not be a world that she could handle living in. Thought that while it might be a terrible idea to act on emotion—especially now—that holding back might be ten times worse.

And as she watched Thor drag off that sonofabitch who nearly took away everything she cared about, Natasha made a split second decision. Pure instinct, no hesitation. Just like four years ago—except completely different.

* * *

He was sure she did it as much to distract him as anything, but when Natasha leaned into him and whispered into his ear as Thor prepared to return to Asgard, Loki in tow, he had to smile.

"If you're still up for refreshing my memory, I'm in," she said. "Your room. One hour."

He was still smiling when her words actually sank in. Then the reality of it all hit him like a tidal wave. Wait—had she just?... He couldn't believe it, after all this time.

Clint wasn't sure what had changed her mind. Maybe it was what Loki'd done to him—to them. Maybe it was the simple fact that they'd survived today, when all logic said they should've died out there. But either way, he sure as hell wasn't going to question it.

"You're on," he said.

* * *

If it were possible, the second time was even better than the first. Clint forgot his own name again for a minute. Made her scream his though.

"Did that just happen?" he found himself asking.

"Mmm hmmm," Natasha purred, drawing idle circles on his chest, "you bet your ass it did."

"And there's no chance you're going to forget everything tomorrow?" He hated himself for asking, hated how ridiculous and goddamn needy he sounded, but he was terrified that this would end up becoming just one more in a long line of things that would remain unspoken between them.

Natasha stilled, then propped herself up enough to look at him. "Not a chance," she said softly, face serious, and the look in her eyes nearly took his breath away. In the space of a heartbeat, the look was gone, though, replaced with a wicked smile. "But just in case—you know, to make sure it stays with me—I might need a repeat performance."

"Oh, really?"

"Mmmm."

He laughed, she smiled, and he kissed her. And much later, as he was lying breathless in bed—a very satisfied and non-concussed Natasha Romanoff in his arms—Clint thought that this time around their story might just have a different ending.

-fin-


End file.
